Above: A spread from my sketchbook exploring mark making inspired by nature. Background image by Deeana Garcia via Pexels
I’m mesmerized watching Eva Kalien’s reels of her mixed media sketches, but inevitably I want her to have stopped way sooner than she does.
I am drawn to some of Eva Kitok’s early embroidery work, where parts of the composition are outlined with stitch, but otherwise incomplete. Ditto the embroidery of Tilleke Schwarz.
And more times than not, I love my own sketches more than I do the finished piece.
What is it that appeals to me about the unfinished or almost finished, the quick sketches in the sketchbook vs the realized art? When something is provisional, it means that I haven’t committed. That it still has the possibility to be brilliant. That there are questions unanswered still.
It’s like I get to be 25 all over again, starting my first job as an eager young “dressed for success” professional with PhD in hand, not the person who’s wrapping up a career at at least my 10th employer, having been fired and laid off more than enough times for the scales to have fallen from my eyes.
Unfinished things could still be something not yet determined, but maybe wonderful.
Perhaps this is why I’ve always enjoyed generating lots of ideas — maybe too much, why I spend (waste?) so much time exploring all possibilities. As a designer, it’s been a way to head off having to actually commit to an idea, and having the implementation — the design — come up short of the vision.
Maybe this is why it’s been hard to get rid of art supplies and books that I bought with the idea of: I’m going to pursue [insert here: encaustic, painting, jewelry making, scratchboard]. I dabble in things, occasionally produce pieces that to other people’s eyes are really good, but quickly move on, in case I might have to commit and fail.
Maybe that’s why it’s felt momentous to get rid of supplies these past few months. Giving them to someone who will actually use them is my way of dealing with accepting I’m not going to actually do X. It’s deciding to focus on a couple of media and let go of the rest. It’s accepting that my life is careening toward being "finished" and it’s not going to meet up to the mental sketches I had of it in my 20s, 30s, and 40s.
Going through an old notebook recently, I came across this thought: “I feel like I am in unending mourning for the person I should have become, yet uncertain exactly who that person is.” I’m not sure how much closer I am to knowing that person now than when I wrote that in 2013. But I have come to know that always imagining the cool things I could do blinds me to appreciating and valuing the cool things I have done. Shame on me!
In January, I started doing an Instagram-based challenge, #52tagshannemade, started by Anne Brooke. Each week, she posts a video to YouTube with that week’s theme. The themes have alternated between particular stitches, such as pistil or bullion, or concepts, such as wrapping or hidden treasure.
I haven’t always kept up; sometimes the theme doesn’t resonate with me. Some themes I enjoyed so much, I completed two tags. The tags are roughly 2 inch x 3 inch, although some weeks I made larger tags to tackle more complex compositions. Below are 9 of my favorites.
Themes for the tags above, from top left.
Row 1: ORT; yummy; knots;
Row 2: Bits and bobs and a gift; yo-yos and lace; treasure and a pocket;
Row 3: couching; cuppa; hexies.
You can see all my tags, along with other stitchery, at my Instagram feed, chrishasmeinstitches.
Harriett Chapman has a lifelong interest in objects, places, their connections and memories. These are the things that inspire her...
Chapman uses simple stitch and shapes to create evocative places in fabric. It’s inspiring me to think about reviving an abandoned piece of my own work: screen-printed abstract houses on canvas that I intended to layer with fabric and stitch. Many years before I actually took up embroidery.
When 2021’s 100 Day Project kicked off in January, I intended to spend 4 minutes doing a 4-inch square cut and paste collage each day, using two prompts from a set I created. For example, type and complementary colors or cut paper and geometric. (See the entire series on Instagram.)
That lasted about two weeks. Maybe three. 😆 It felt like I kept drawing the same two prompts from the box. It started to feel way too constricting (aka, I got bored), and I definitely was spending more than 4 minutes most days.
Here’s what I learned this year:
1. Abstract compositions are deceptively hard.
Above: Nine collages playing with shapes and translucent red paper.
2. I swing wildly between craving structure and wanting to let loose.
3. Posting to the Instagram community connected me to artists whose work or words gave me inspiration to keep going and try something different when I was ready to stop (thanks, Jon Townsend and Bhupali Gupte).
Above: Four collages inspired by Jon Townsend’s work.
4. This is a great way to start the day when you wake up way too early (which happened a lot in the dark months of pandemic self-isolation).
5. I admire layering and randomness in others’ work but I really struggle to break free of my minimalist, must-be-a-reason-for-everything style. I’m sure my background in writing about science and training in graphic design has a lot to do with this.
Above: A series of collages using bits and pieces of images of buildings to create surrealist architecture.
6. I’m improving at dissecting what I respond to in others' work and engaging in formal analysis of compositions (see 5.)
Above: Collages inspired by Bhupali Gupte’s work and exploring layering.
7. As in every year's 100 Day Project, there’s a lot to be said to just keep going.
Above: After convincing myself to keep going, I did a series of “landscapes” made up of bits and pieces placed at random to build up the horizon.
8. I am still in love with type.
Above: Type-based collages.
9. I probably don’t push myself as much as I should. There’s a reason they call it a comfort zone. It’s comfortable! When the outside world seems to be going to hell in a hand basket, comfort is a valuable commodity. And, you know, that’s okay!
A recent article in the Textile Artist prompted some self-reflection on where I am in my “stitcher's journey.” The author, Louise Etheridge, identified four stages, with recommendations of how to progress from one to the next.
As in most things, I’m somewhere between two stages, depending which day of the week you ask me! 😂
Stage Two: Building confidence
Do I enjoy stitching but sometimes feel that I‘m out of my depth? Check. Am I sometimes disappointed with how my work turns out? Check. That’s definitely stage two.
On the other hand, I have set up a regular creative practice and take on small challenges, either of my own devising or via an Instagram challenge, steps so and so suggests as ways to build confidence. (Right now, I'm taking part in the #52handmadetags challenge from Anne Brooks).
“Your habit of creative practice will gather momentum.”
Stage Three: Expanding your creative horizons
Have I been stitching “on the regular” for quite some time? Check. In fact, having recently paged through old sketchbooks, I’ve been stitching on and off since 2003 when I took a workshop from Melinda Barta on Embroidering Personal Maps. Do I often see where I want to go (translation: admire the work of others) but have only a vague idea of how to get there? Check.
“Finding your authentic voice means playing a lot of songs on a lot of different instruments.”
So now I am playing many instruments: a daily 100 Day Project doing small collages (#100Daysof4x4Collages), and, as I mentioned, my weekly hand-stitched tag. In both cases, I push myself to try new things and pay attention to what resonates with me.
If your 2020 was anything like mine, you alternated between anxiety, anger, and despair, with a big dose of “What the hell day is this?” thrown in. Enmeshed in the day to day, I forgot about the many ways that I grew as an artist and crafter, thanks to being isolated and forcibly retired from my weekly game of basketball with the “orthopedic squad.”
Looking back over the year, here’s some things I noted.
Brooches, brooches everywhere
I made brooches. Lots and lots of brooches. I even started working in series. I expanded my stitch repertoire and incorporated cord, beads, and metal.
Because there are only so many brooches you can make, I turned to practical things, and taught myself to make face masks and fabric cord wraps, enough to share as gifts or sell to a next door neighbor (properly socially distanced of course!). Next on my agenda is a fabric pencil and pen roll.
New tricks
I mastered the quilter’s knot. OMG, why did it take me this long?
I checked one thing off my “to learn” list: I sewed buttonholes! I’m still working on the whole zipper thing. Watch out 2021!
My mastery of the above is due to the wonderful generosity of YouTubers like Missouri Star Quilt Company and Chatterbox Quilts, from which I have learned too many sewing tips to count. My most recent rabbit hole: the difference between appliqué, sequin, and bead pins, and how to use them. Thanks, Becky Goldsmith, for a great video about appliqué!
Letting it flow
I made progress in loosening up from my long-standing minimalism, getting a lot more comfortable with layering and spontaneity. (As a corollary, I got a lot of experience in picking out stitches.) I offer a thanks to Cas Holmes’ community stitch challenge: create a stitched collage of an object with personal meaning.
Why start small?
I bravely plunged into visible mending projects, starting off not with a simple cuff or frayed knee. No, I went whole hog mending two pleather jackets that were peeling. My thought was, without mending, they’re headed to the dumpster. Then I scaled back and mended some cuffs and hems and darned some socks. A shout out to Erin Eggenburg for her inspiring Instagram feed and video tuts.
Germinating
I stretched myself taking some wonderful online workshops in watercolor, abstract painting, collage, making faces, and even a flip book animation course (making one of these is at the top of Q1 2021 projects). I recommend these instructors: Laura Horn, Tracy Verdugo, Lynn Whipple, and Amy Pirkle.
Part of one’s growth as an artist is learning what is and isn’t in your wheelhouse. I admit that painting is not my thing. And I suck at making fabric twine. Accept it and move on.
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What did you learn in 2020? Was your year more or less creative than typical?
A lady asked me how much it cost to make her a purse of a well known style in cotton fabric of a particular design and colour.
£35 - I said.
She said she thought that was a bit dear for a purse.
I asked her how much she thought it would cost her to make one then.
She thought about £10 as you can get similar in Primarni for £8
OK, so for £10 do it yourself I said
Her reply was - I don’t know how to.
I said for £10 I’ll teach you how to. So besides saving you £25 you’ll get the knowledge if you ever want to make another.
She seemed pleased and agreed.
OK I said, you’ll need a machine, cutting mat, rotary cutter, rivet press and the pattern.
Oh well….. I don’t have many of things and I can’t justify buying all that just to make one purse.
Well then for another £10 more I’ll lend you my stuff to you so you can do it at my house.
Okay, she says.
Great, I replied, come round on Tuesday afternoon and we’ll make a start
Oh, I can’t come on Tuesday I’m having my hair done!
Sorry, but I’m only available Tuesday to teach you and lend you my stuff. Other days are busy with other bags and purses.
Bugger, that means I’ll have to miss my haircut.
Oh, I forgot, I said, to make one yourself you also have to pay for the sundry costs.
Now she’s confused – what on earth are they??
Fabric search time, electric, wear and tear on the machine, blades for the cutter etc
She looks at me and says – but that’s ridiculous you can absorb all that cost as you are charging me to borrow your stuff.
I could, I said, but I’m not spending time looking for the fabric you need you can do that yourself – you need 3 fat quarters of fabric, buckram, woven interfacing, non woven interfacing, a lock, rivets and matching thread.
So she then says - I’ve been thinking, I think I’d rather pay you the £35.
It’s too complicated to make one for myself, it wouldn’t be as well made and it would cost me a hell of a lot more than £35.
When you pay for a hand crafted item, you pay not only for the material used, but also:
- knowledge
- experience
- tools
- services
- time
- enthusiasm
Only by knowing all the elements necessary for the production of a certain item can you estimate the actual cost.
Mostly black and white analog collages, each about two inches square. When I’ve awakened much too early during the pandemic, I soothe myself by doing quick collages from paper scraps.
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